


Shifting Proximities

by dawnstonedust (dawnstonedagger)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Fade Dates, POV Solas, Weird Fade Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstonedagger/pseuds/dawnstonedust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas knows it would be a terrible idea to begin a relationship with Ellana, as much as he cares for her, but every time they meet in the Fade, pieces of their most intimate dreams of each other leak out of their subconsciouses. Soon, they're both frustrated, and he's torn between his better judgment, and making the most of what little time they can have together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shifting Proximities

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Dragon Age Kink meme here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14591.html?thread=54923775#t54923775

* * *

 

Dreaming so near to Ellana's spiritual light, is sometimes uncomfortable.

It does not help nor assuage Solas knowing she will be likely be joining him soon, when sleep takes her, and... he is still not quite certain where they stand with each other. He swats at this line of thought, trying to dismiss it, for it will take him nowhere good, as much as he wants her.

He adapts, because he can, and he must—the Fade is his demesne, has been for years untold, tracked in the ashes of a millions million candles in the forgotten temples, by quiet slaves and lonely priests counting out hours; these under which he has slept and made no progress, but learned and gathered bits of memory, searching, always searching for a hint, a wisp of greater wisdom.

Here he asks, again and again, what could have been done that he had not done? What had he overlooked, in the rush to save the sacred and relentless heart of the Elvhen, which he had set free, tried to protect, which had nevertheless fallen and shriveled to its current pathetic state...

Moving forward feels impossible, under the weight of such failure, yet the hunt is on, waking and sleeping; to reset the balance, stave back what has made magic thin in the world, what has laid the People low and poisoned the blood of the world.

It _is_ pride that makes him believe he can do better, that his enduring spirit is this time more worthy to help, even when the weight of time tells him otherwise. Everything must die, must be reborn in another shape to stagger through the same follies—but Solas is already a fool, a coward to time, and has refused to follow its precepts.

Fate has handed him an agent, this light, the means to correct another of his mistakes, and he has already come this far with her, protected her waking and sleeping. To give up now, it is not an idea he can bear. So he must endure her bright presence— she, marked and empowered to make the world dance on the edge of her sword.

It should be impossible that she is so fascinating, that he is tempted to take her for himself. Would that he could afford to keep her at his side forever. However long forever might be, if he fails to retrieve Mythal's gift and the whole of his own power. Would it be so bad? To just give up, let go, and make himself forget?

 _So weak you become for her, old wolf,_ comes the voice of reason. And a fool and a traitor to himself.

Ellana would forswear him if she knew the truth, he is sure of it. Soon, it will be unbearable to face... Yet... Yet, there is so much to be done, but she came to him... and she came to him and he let her past the threshold. The wolf in him grins and waits.

She can never know. But she will, she will.

He can't help it, wanting her. It is so glorious and invigorating to watch her judicious conquest of the bleeding, brutalized South. Not in the least because she is young(she would be young to him, even if he did not know her meager years), uncertain(but wanting to do right), proud(with a strong spirit, amplified like a beacon by the anchor), lovely and constantly tempting his own hungry, implacable self. Between the Fade and materiality, he's not certain which part craves her touch more. It has been so long since he has known such delight.

Soon, he will find her, catch her again in dreams, circling those boundaries he has been so careful to lay and has already allowed her to push past once, been dragged through by sudden, reckless and unaccountable lust.

He tells himself one kiss, two, very well, _three_ , casual, spontaneous, innocuous intoxicating kisses cannot hurt. It does not mean anything unless he allows it to. She will find someone else, soon enough, someone who belongs to her world, if he does not encourage her. The wolf can deny it all he wants, he _is_ too old to fall for some audacious stripling girl, right as the world is ending.

But how can he not?

She wanders across as sleep takes her, and he watches, waits, keeps catching himself hoping that she will choose to come so close again. Close, though he can already smell and taste her in the Fade, cannot deny her, or more, won't, because the wolf wants to play. As if he were fit to kiss the hem of her gown.

Solas absently shapes something familiar out of the space he usually occupies, while her first thin dreams wrap around her in a riot of colorful memories, drawing wisps to give them form. He waits at the edge of sight, trying to draw to him a nearby spirit of patience. Wisdom would be prudent to find as well, for at this rate, he is certain to need such stabilizing influence.

It is in Ellana's nature to try to throw back darkness, push her light into the far corners wherever she can. Not a power to be underestimated, and he's going to do it—eventually stumble and let her see too much; just like he knows she is falling, uncomprehending, into the blue-black void of his mystery merely by looking deeper. Inquisitor is such a fitting title for her.

He has spun out so many careful deceptions for this delicate bloom at his fingers, she, a new flame in his heart, hypnotic and pure, and in its own way magnificent. She comes forth, is partially lucid, is searching with wide, wary eyes through her own memories of their shared dream of home.

Can he call it that? Is it allowed if he does not plan to stay?

“Solas?”

 _It needs a new name_ , the spirits whisper, tittering at him, while her voice echoes across the Fade. None of the old ones fit, do not suit what panic he feels, under the unsubtle influence of this one bright and surely ephemeral being. _Where is the rebel? Where has your pride fled? Are you truly the Dread Wolf of Elvhenan? Is one mortal so distracting, destructing of your purest self; do you settle for this lesser demon stroking your cock with her questions?_

With this crude admonition Solas forces himself to recall the mantra that limns the edges of his mind—stand tall, be who you are, glorious and strong; uncorrupted, take back what was—the People deserve nothing less; he had breathed and bled and wept for them, sacrificed everything else of value. How could he possibly abandon them now? And yet, she is one of them, one of the survivors.

Unknowing how she troubles him, she steps closer, warps the fabric of the Fade. She was not born a Dreamer, but the anchor has given her a key. As he observes, perched in another nearby dream, her world _shifts_.

With casual steps Ellana wrecks every drifting, delicate, multi-color strand in her way, as she passes through a dream field. The river halts in its bed, frozen, every blade of green grass stretching out, going tall and golden, the sky going heavy and gray. She cuts through it all, bundled in winter clothes, now riding her favorite hart at a gallop, pale hair streaming behind her. A good memory, likely, from before the Conclave. She's not riding alone, though the face of her companion changes, shifts from one young, handsome, tattooed elven face to another—then his own face—to an old woman, perhaps her mother, or her Keeper, and then his face again. She has many people in her heart, and he suspects she (rightly) has doubts whether her elders would approve of him.

“When will you be back?” asks a disembodied, but distinctively male voice. Her father? Her lover?

“As soon as I can,” she says, and rides away. Solas hears the lie, but not the reason behind it.

Her dream moves on, collapses into a dream of fear, where she's fighting and alone, scared, as armored figures bristling with glowing red lyrium rush forth; thready cast-offs from other, older dreams she encounters, they flow to her, forming up as her most faithful companions, armed to the teeth, magic flaring, backing her up, advancing on their enemies one by one, a wall of overwhelming force—as she knew they would. Ellana trusts them so much already. Together, they press on through... and just as quickly she walks away.

The battle fades behind her, light always before her, as she moves on, passes through into the halls of Skyhold, the stones solidifying as they coalesce around, conforming to her memories of light and shadow, texture and temperature, smell and taste; she, searching.

“Solas?”

He lets her closer, because he can redirect her path, guide her elsewhere, if he loses his nerve, show her another face if he likes. She only knows the one—looks at him through her lashes like she wants him to touch her, but he cannot. Not again. If he lets her in...

“I know you're here. If here is where I think it is,” she says. “Then again, I don't even know where you sleep.”

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, approaching her from behind, amused as she turns toward him, startled.

The dream shivers, almost flies apart with the wave of emotion, her face colors and there is a flicker of memory which tugs on his spirit. He feels himself with his mouth on hers again, hands pushing up under her clothes, overcome, and in the next moment the vision is gone though the feeling it lingers.

“I—I was curious. Am I disturbing you?” she says, her voice quivering as if she is not quite certain what happened, but knowing what she was thinking when it did. It reminds him of days long past, when uninhibited, intimate contact with his fellow Dreamers was common. A pity he must suppress his own impulses so tightly; she clearly had little control and he would overwhelm her like the flood claims the land.

“In a way, yes, but I am not displeased to have company. There is little in this part of the Fade I have not explored.”

“It seems like it's more solid here. Is it you, or just where we are?”

An excellent question, but he has come to expect her curious and insightful attempts to tease out information from him. There is another hanging question she does not ask, and for that he is grateful.

“Primarily, it is the place—one hallway is much like another, an easy pattern for spirits to construct again and again. Where it leads to, however, tends to rely upon where you expect it to go. Come,” he says, moving forward, resisting the sudden urge to take her hand—but he feels it there for a second, before he pushes back the thought, warm and callused, firmly grasping his own.

She looks up at him, wondering.

Careless... they need a distraction, and quickly, else he is certain his control will degenerate further.

He chooses a place from his catalog of memory, and they step out onto a stone-paved street, empty of traffic, narrow, just short of being an alley. It is lined by white stucco houses of two and even three stories, the doors painted in bright colors and framed with greenery. The air smells of salt and is hot and dry, but not unbearably so. Ahead, their path opens up, and there is a public square ornamented with well-maintained greenery, squat palm trees, and flowering shrubs that give off a subtle perfume.

At the center of the square, a large fountain gurgles and chimes, while busy elves, many with the brown complexion and dark hair common to those of the north, draw water to carry home; some bathe their children in the lower pool, a ritual mundane and peaceful. One thousand years from this point, the fountain will lay shattered and dry, and two thousand years after that, no one but he and the spirits will know it was ever there at all.

“What is this place?” she asks, her voice soft, nervous, as if she has forgotten they are in the Fade.

“It was a city named Hiron'mavath, in what is now northeastern Tevinter. I believe the Tevinters called the city built on top of its bones Verdenassus, but it is mostly ruins as well, due to Qunari incursions,” Solas replies, keeping as vague as he can about it; he walked these streets many ages ago, nothing of them remain; it is likely he should not have told her the old Elvhen name.

“I've seen Verdenassus on maps, but I've never heard of anything coming from there,” she says, still looking around the square in wide-eyed amazement. They pass through unnoticed, though no one is truly there to see them, but for the spirits. He only means to share the memory, not manipulate it or her more than necessary. It serves well in distracting her, even if it is the last place he should have shown her.

“Nothing has, for a very long time. It was a quiet place when our people still ruled—except for the Games,” he says, a slightly wistful grin curling his lips.

Young, and often low-born mages would come from far away to compete for money, for the attention of nobles who might take them into service, or for the notice of older mages who could offer more advanced training. Not the same as the sort of bloodsport which took place in other cities, but winning such arduous contests did require ruthlessness, power, and no small amount of talent; deaths during the matches were not unheard of.

“Games?” She seems surprised, though he is fairly certain the Dalish are familiar with a wealth of commonplace diversions. Magical ones, perhaps not so much.

“Yes. Would you care to watch the spirits re-enact one? Rather tame compared to many of our experiences of late, but entertaining nonetheless.” He knows precisely which match he wants to show her, too, though the names and faces will be meaningless to her.

“That sounds wonderful,” she says, smiling and radiant, suddenly flickering closer to him, and then back where she was. “I would love to.”

Carrying with him a warmth in his breast at her enthusiasm, he leads her to the outskirts of the city(the facade of which slowly dissolves behind them). He does not condense the distance as he might have while traveling alone, preferring a leisurely walk with her. Soon, they crest a gentle hill from which the sea is visible beyond, shimmering in the distance under sharply blue sky and drifting summer clouds. The rest of the city unfolds beneath them in a mottled quilt, temples and towers protruding like scattered golden ornaments. He hears her breath catch, and he cannot help but smile.

“Someone loved this place a great deal for the spirits to render it so faithfully,” he says, resting his hand on her shoulder while she stands motionless. The memory is fuzzy at the edges where the spirits are less tightly convened, like the fringes of a painter's ground set in three dimensions.

“And this city is completely destroyed and forgotten?”

“As you can see, not entirely. I thought it worth remembering such a dream. There are many such to be stumbled upon in the Fade. Our people had many beautiful cities scattered across the known world.”

“I begin to see why you mourn so deeply what was lost. My people, my clan, I'm not sure they could even...”

“Yes, and this was merely a quiet port, not a center of knowledge and culture. It was quite lovely at night, too,” Solas says, realizing then that he is touching her, and he puts his hands behind his back, as if trying to hide the evidence. She doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in the scenery.

They walk on, to where the paved streets end, switching over to packed earth. Following the well-beaten path to the top of a ridge covered in grayish scrub grass and tiny white flowers, they reach the court where the Games are held. From here, it slopes gently down into a depression, which holds the wide, circular arena cut in white stone; this is domed by a massive, shimmering green magical barrier. For the time being, the space under the barrier is empty.

Bracketing it on two sides, are rows upon rows of stairlike stone seats, already crowded with people; many have brought baskets of wine and fruit and bread to be shared with their families and friends while they watch. Someone at the edge of the arena is playing a string instrument, layering and amplifying its sounds with magic, and a pretty, if mournful, song reverberates over them all. He allows Ellana to choose their seats, and she leads him to a curiously empty spot in the second tier near the center, with an excellent view.

Solas does not watch the match, however, already aware of what transpires, every flash of fire and movement captured in memory, and in the Fade by the spirits. No, what he wants to remember now is this—her, her reactions, her excitement and wonder, the nervous glances to him for reassurance that, yes, she is seeing something that was once real.

The time he shares with her in that treasured recollection is much too brief. She is woken, drawn out of the dream, long before he is, and when he wakes, he feels a terrible absence. It is different from his typical ennui at having to rejoin the physical world. Part of him expects her to be there, is perplexed that Ellana is not curled against him in his bed, still lingering in dreams.

Ten empires may have risen and fallen in the time since he last felt this particular ache. It is not a good sign, if he had thought he might shake off an entanglement with her.

Despite knowing better, despite knowing he should not exacerbate it, Solas meets her again in the Fade the next night, and the next, practicing restraint as well as he is able (which is to say, poorly, and hanging by a thread). She—excited as he to spend the long and lonely night together, walking lost streets, watching griffon races, and observing ancient Alamarri battles echoed from the stones of Skyhold itself—takes tentative steps at his side. Though she continues to have difficulty concealing her desires, with the Fade pressing all around her, easily shaped by her strong will.

What she draws to her with such raw emotion, unsurprisingly, is not always innocuous. Whenever they are away from the protections of Skyhold, he has to be more vigilant in watching for the more devious and malevolent creatures of the Fade, but he cannot be everywhere. His presence has guarded her from the beginning, but it has become personal. The spirits also detect his turmoil, and they prod him for it, they test his boundaries. They are everywhere.

 _You might as well get it over with, old wolf,_ the weakest spirits say, reflecting back his own resigned thoughts, as if to shake their wispy heads at him. When a desire demon is brazen enough to saunter near—though it should know better than to cross into his part of the Fade (which for now he has shaped into an old-growth forest, green, and mossy and cool)—it is suitably chipper, as it tries to latch onto him like some spangled pink leech.

 _He has already made up his mind, yes? Take her, enjoy her. She tastes wonderful,_ it says, as if it has fed on Ellana. Perhaps it has.

Irritated, the wolf crushes it with unrestrained magical force, sending its shimmering remains away to go re-form elsewhere in the Fade. That a demon has elicited such a show of temper from him, is telling. Usually, he will at minimum take a moment to talk, attempt to persuade it to take another path away from him. Not this night. Only the most mindless of the spirits do not flee his territory once they detect his foul mood.

He waits for Ellana, and tries to think about calming things, like painting and itineraries, but fails.

To follow the demon's suggestion will benefit him little. It is not as if he can ever truly have her. Becoming more attached will only mean greater pain for them both in the end, he tells this to himself again and again. Then he laughs. For when has the threat of pain ever managed to stop him from pursuing anything he deemed worthwhile?

Ellana catches his eyes sometimes in the waking world, and he can see the burning frustration there, the puzzlement. These glances beg to know where the man who had kissed her so soundly has disappeared to. He has not gone anywhere, of course, merely allowed his wants to be subsumed by an emotion far more practical—fear; that, and bitter, bitter understanding.

Realistically, the face she loves is not his true face.

Logically, their paths must diverge, either in her death, or due to his betrayal.

Unless the mark has fundamentally changed her mortality (which _is_ theoretically possible, once he thinks about it), he might continue his farce, but she will most likely wither and die, as even the most robust blossom must, while he endures. If—no—when, she discovers who and what he is, what he has done, what he will do, then... then, if she survives the upheaval, she might have eternity to hate him.

They continue their strange dance in dreams for weeks, their hearts revealed in flashes of raw need, lust and longing. His senses are already heightened by the stress of being on the road, from fighting and killing when needed.

For a few seconds each night though, when they meet, he might taste her mouth, or let his fingers slip up between her legs as she bears down in these flashes of desire. He cannot help holding on to the delicious flicker of dream she gave him, of her riding him while he bucked up into her, careless and savage and hard. These moments are disjointed and increasingly longer and more intense, and acknowledging them only seems to make it worse.

“Did I just-” she tries to say, after he is momentarily drawn into one very specific fantasy of hers.

“Not precisely, you thought about ah—it, which as you know in the Fade can translate to action,” he says. “Though that one did surprise me.” Perhaps it should not have. He knows of at least one other person in the Inquisition, who probably wouldn't mind having sex up against a dragon's fresh corpse.

“I—I'm sorry,” she says awkward, and ashamed.

He has to hold himself back, try not to touch her—though there it is for a moment, her warm, soft skin. The Fade holds so many much darker dreams, those of domination and terror and torment; he has seen many obscene things he wished he had not. Where and how she has imagined she might love him is comparatively pure.

“Why apologize? You are not the only guilty party. I have had several... lapses, as well.” Not by design, no. She feeds his subconscious in somewhat unpredictable ways, though considering what he wants, it should be perfectly predictable.

“Yes, and I—we aren't... I know how you feel, why can't you let me in? Are you bonded to someone else? I need to know where I stand with you,” she says, all in a rush. Solas feels terrible that she might think that there could possibly be someone else.

“As you should. I can see I have been unfair. No, I am not bonded to anyone, lethallan,” he says, and he can see her relax a little. “I apologize for being indecisive, but understand that I do enjoy our time together—I wish to see you every day and every night. I am simply... cautious. As I said before, it has been a long time.” It is true, he has not wanted to be with a woman, a man, anyone, this way in such a long time, a time when the world was still whole.

She deserves a better answer, and they both know it, but she does not push him. She does leave him early that night, whether to waking, or to bury herself in a more private dream he does not know. As always, he can feel her spirit near; for now, he pretends that is all he needs.

All attempts at denial collapse when Wisdom dies.

Ellana does her best, tries to help him save one of his dearest friends, but their efforts are not enough.

When he leaves to mourn, she gives him space, does not seek him out in the Fade. Though she would not find him if she did, this is a relief. He does not have to explain the whys or hows of his relationship with the spirit; how long they had been friends, why it was so important to him.

His grief is appalling in its depth, however. Solas had once thought somewhere, somehow, there had to be a bottom to such a feeling. After all he has lost, after all he has let go, it is still there like a blasted plain, like some silent desert he must pad across alone.

Once he clears his head a bit, he remembers that he does have someone to turn to, even if their time together can only be temporary. Perhaps, if he allows it, just for a while, it can be enough.

Solas does not fail to see the irony in the horrible thought, that indeed wisdom may be lost to him. He should not compromise himself in a moment of weakness... but there must be _something_ in his life to fill this chasm of loss, now grown wider and deeper. If he loses her, too, now, when he could have had more... it is just unthinkable.

When he returns from his mourning, and he confronts her in the physical world, Ellana gives him the smallest tug and he kisses her like she is his own breath. He gives in. He surrenders. Admits he does love her, his heart, his home. Tells her so in the tongue he wishes she could always speak to him in. He would love her even if he never saw her again, but for in some fond faded memory. Now, though, Solas wants to make memories, dreams with her, as many as possible.

In the Fade that night, he does not hesitate to seek her out, slips into her dream as she has his own.

It is a dark dream he has seen her go through on previous nights, from a distance, and has never interrupted. She sits on her prickly golden throne in the main hall, the stained-glass windows behind her replaced by curtains of sun-shot ivy. Ash and oak trees grow from the stone floor, like evenly-spaced pillars down the hall, leafy branches laced together holding up nothing but sky.

The shapes of familiar people meander through, indistinct, muttering and whispering as they would in reality, spitting rumors and the odd laugh. He notices for the first time, behind her throne is a massive yellow-skinned dragon, similar to one they recently killed, curled in slumber.

Solas smirks at this interesting addition, wondering if it is meant to be a guardian or a pet.

She does not seem to notice him as he approaches. Instead, her attention is focused upon the man kneeling in front of her, a human chained at his wrists and ankles for his crimes. Ellana is silent and second-guessing, though she has made many careful and well-considered judgments as Inquisitor, before. She, as anyone charged with power over life and death, suffers greatly at times from uncertainty.

When he stood witness to her original decision, he approved of the verdict to spare this particular man, to put him and his knowledge to work for the Inquisition. At the time, she seemed confident and self-assured.

She stands up, and a sword appears, heavy and ugly in her hand. Ellana looms over the kneeling magister, her face full of fear and rage. Solas does not know all of what happened in that other future, the one she has prevented thus far, or what she witnessed, but it has marked her, leaving her to try to process the fallout here in dreams. The first time, she cut Alexius down mercilessly, the second time she didn't; this time...

“Does this help?” he asks, approaching her at an angle from behind one of the tree-pillars, hands clasped behind his back. “The choice you made to begin with was good, it was sufficient—I daresay, wise. But I have come to admire that about you.”

“You didn't see it, Solas,” she says, lowering the sword, regarding him with a haunted expression.

“For that I should be grateful—but if you wish to show me, I would walk through that nightmare with you.” He does carry a modicum of morbid curiosity about it, wanting to know more of what she experienced; she has thus far kept those memories separate from her dreams, or hidden them so well it is as if she tries to blot them out.

Ellana shakes her head, and the sword vanishes, as does the prisoner. “I promise you, it is not worth your time to see the world burning to death under the influence of blight and red lyrium and demons. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and for what? Alexius only ever intended to save his son. He was willing to undo the whole world for the sake of one person. It terrifies me.”

For a moment her dream flickers red and dark, and they are standing on a metal grate in a ruined tower. The sky visible above is sickly green and rent beyond repair, while demons appear to descend upon them. Just as quick, they are returned to the verdant hall she has shaped into the hold of her dreams.

“Do his actions touch on something personal for you? Besides the obvious,” he asks, still reeling from being exposed to even a few seconds of that future horror which she could not hold in.

“In a way. I used to think I would do anything for my clan, but now... I do care about them, but I don't think I'll return when this is over. I don't know how I could, after seeing... so much. It makes me feel like a creators-damned blood-traitor.”

Standing before her, he rests his hands on her bowed shoulders, and when she looks up at him, her eyes are not pleading for advice, nor brimming with tears, but resigned and thoughtful. She is the very picture of a sigh, but for the vallaslin marring her lovely face.

His gut twists in rage again that such a vile brand, so antithetical to her spirit, was graven into her skin with good intentions. If she knew the truth of the man to whom she proclaimed loyalty to through such marks, of their baleful purpose, what would it do to her pride? He touches her face, fingers trailing experimentally upon her cheek, trying to ignore what in another time, would have marked her untouchable, someone else's property.

“The Dalish have such curious ideas. You are anything but a traitor to your people, vhenan,” he says, and she wrinkles her nose at him for it, as he knew she would. She has shamed him already for being so critical of her kin, but it is difficult for him to separate his own anger at himself from his prejudice towards them. Such stark reminders they offer of how badly he miscalculated the ramifications of his most notorious deed. Somehow, those wandering shadows of Elvhenan still managed to produce someone as remarkable as she.

“You want to believe I am better than I am, because you love me,” she says, as he draws her into an embrace, holding her as close as he has often wished to in the past. Her body relaxes against him, willowy and light; like a finely crafted bow, she is much stronger than she looks.

“No, I love you because you are better. I promise I have seldom seen the like. You, your spirit, they have inspired me.”

“To what?” Ellana chuckles, and Solas leans in until their foreheads touch, the bridge of his nose crossing hers. They nuzzle at each other, trading small kisses. Always questions, even when... but then he does not really mind.

“Many things,” he says, smiling.

He catches her mouth on full—or perhaps she catches his—it is a moment of such mutual desire, and his thinking is muddled by her closeness. The luscious smell and feel of her, which have for so long threatened to overwhelm and undo him, he revels in them, no longer forcing himself to hold back.

They fall together then into a primal place, the shape of their surroundings losing significance, thinning out into formless matter. Anything imaginable that could keep them separate, distract them, is eschewed from this shared dream, leaving them naked and tangled like vines—seemingly defenseless, but for a shroud composed of the Fade which Solas has pulled around them.

Impatient and unabashed, Ellana opens to him, gifts him with all of the intimate knowledge from the abbreviated dreams she has been torturing him with for weeks. He learns how she wishes to be touched and kissed (often, along her ears, between her legs, inside her wrists), where her hands wish to roam upon his body (up the flat planes of his chest and back, along his neck, over his scalp, back down to caress his thighs and what stands between), and how most easily she might be brought to shuddering climax(though there are three other ways she likes, and she wants him to discover them all outside of dreams).

More cautious, but equally elated, Solas shares of himself what he can; he does not want to pollute these moments with his darker urges, nor the wolf's lusts and proclivities. Here and now, there is nothing that matters more than her, the pleasure she freely offers him, and that which he endeavors to return in kind.

This is what he likes best about lovemaking in the Fade—how close their spirits can come, without completely merging (a risk, if one spirit intentionally overpowers the other in such an open, vulnerable state), the uninhibited transference of emotion; of knowing she truly wants to have something of what he is within her, regardless of their differences. He does very much intend to love her as well and as fully as he is able in waking, when such time comes.

To dream together like this, it is not a replacement for physical intimacy, nor is it necessarily better, but Solas finds it easier, less complicated. They are unhindered by the limitations of the flesh, for one (though those limitations are what can make sex while waking much more intense). Nonetheless, he is exceedingly pleased with himself (and presumably, she with him) when they lock into each other just right, he strokes her spirit in the perfect place, and just like that, their beings harmonize. All that she is blazes brighter, radiating explosively, washing him with the euphoric wave that is orgasm as it takes her.

She is so beautiful.

He follows her over the edge moments after, surrenders to her again, hoping she is too overcome to notice just how open he has left himself. Engulfed by this sweet release, its power fed by the rolling heat of her afterglow, such danger seems insignificant.

And the wolf laughs at him for it—tempers his bliss with memories of other fires, the scent of ancient blood drying on stone, the knowledge that for every measure of joy, he has bought himself its equal in despair. Solas did not lie, Ellana is as his own heart, the song that answers his, though he was not seeking such a one. To turn his back on her he cannot even contemplate, but it must happen someday.

_Not yet. Not yet._

They settle into a comfortable lull, and he dredges up for them (with the part of his mind that is yet vigilant, sensing for demons) the fond memory of a bed.

It resides within a handsome Orlesian hunting lodge, which—unbeknownst to the owners—he slept beneath the roof of, several months before the Breach came into being. Fine, soft furs are piled high on the wide feather mattress, the bedstead of heavy wood, the bed curtains in some dark brocade. For the moment it feels real enough, as he rolls her onto her back atop it, pinning her at the hips with his own, though most of his weight is on his hands as he arches over her.

Ellana gives him a knowing, hungry grin, and they start again.


End file.
